


HELP FRANCIS BONNEFOY FIND L'AMOUR 2K19

by RebelsAdvocate



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AU, But Not Self-Insert Really, Character Study, Humor, Love, New Year, New Year's Eve, Romance, Self-Insert, TV Show, Weird, but like not, hmm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 10:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13233879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebelsAdvocate/pseuds/RebelsAdvocate
Summary: “L’amour.” Francis Bonnefoy, staring at the camera as a petite woman holding a makeup brush attacks his face. “Love.” A rose gold smoke briefly overtakes the camera, but we see Francis Bonnefoy’s face even clearer once the dust settles. “What is it, mes amis? And more importantly, how does one acquire such a mysterious, omnipresent, shambling thing?” [one-shot, AU, character study, self-insert-but-not-really, a lil weird but it's my gift to you for the new year]





	HELP FRANCIS BONNEFOY FIND L'AMOUR 2K19

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So this is something. Um. I really have nothing else to say. Disclaimer: it’s not meant to be taken too seriously, if that wasn’t already obvious (but I apologize for any grief it might cause). It’s France, in scenes featuring all the Hetalia characters nearest and dearest to him. There aren’t really pairings, but it’s not really a self-insert… Man, I still don’t know what this is. Guess we’ll find out...

" _L'amour._ " Francis Bonnefoy, staring at the camera as a petite woman holding a makeup brush attacks his face. "Love." A rose-gold smoke briefly overtakes the camera, but we see Francis Bonnefoy's face even clearer once the dust settles. "What is it,  _mes amis_? And more importantly, how does one  _acquire_ such a mysterious, omnipresent, shambling  _thing_?" Francis Bonnefoy is handsome as they come—beautiful, rather—with pastel yellow-blond hair, eyes as blue as all dreams come true, and a jawline that could cut a heart of stone. "As the magnificent George Sand* once said, ' _There is only one happiness in life: to love and be loved.'_ " The makeup woman adjusts Francis Bonnefoy's face, highlighting now his merry cheekbones, but his gaze continues to trap you. "So if love equates happiness, what does that mean for those who do not find it, and what does that mean for those who do?"

Francis Bonnefoy, sitting back up, blowing a kiss of thanks to his stylist as she rushes away to dodge the cameras once more. "So, are you happy,  _mes amis_?" Francis Bonnefoy pauses, waiting for you to ponder the question yourself. You aren't quite sure how to answer, but then Francis Bonnefoy in all his glory hits you with an additional kicker: "If you are, have you found  _l'amour_?"

You stare at him, beautiful him, absolutely stunned. The question goes unanswered. Francis Bonnefoy smiles, and the world disappears, and he is standing up, and his chest is bare, and as he turns to don a mauve, silk dress shirt from a nearby rack of similar dress shirts, he nods. "I plan to answer these questions as best I can in the time I have. Whether happiness equates love, whether one  _needs_ to love and be loved, and more importantly, what love  _is_. And then,"—he winks, and sparks fly, and the camera zooms in—"then, we will go out and find  _l'amour_ for ourselves!"

* * *

**HELP FRANCIS BONNEFOY FIND L'AMOUR 2K18**

* * *

Francis Bonnefoy, at the top of  _La tour Eiffel._  "Paris,  _mes puces_!" He has to shout to reach the vulturous, circling helicopters, but it works, because his chocolate accent stands out wonderfully. "The recipe for love always includes a place, so here we are in what most major search engines, including Google*, agree is the 'City of Love!' Coincidentally, it is also my dearest hometown. Look at all the people!"

The cameras pan around, flashing different shots of different citizens all across the metropolitan area, who are all either smiling, holding hands, drinking wine, or making out on park benches. Francis Bonnefoy is there, too, his perfect golden locks fluttering around in the high breeze. He wears that mauve dress shirt under a white coat, and a matching pair of  _pantalons_. "Here, one does not need to see in color or to have special words written on their wrist* to know there is love around. Most lovers find their significant other near them; most fall in love with people around them. However, for others, it takes a life's journey to find the one they shall call their own. In  _parfait Paris,_  the case can be both!  _Oh!_ "

Francis Bonnefoy notices something offscreen. Across the deck, a young couple is facing each other, a familiar redness covering both their faces. The woman is standing, holding her gloved hands to conceal her lipstick-covered mouth. The man is kneeling, holding a small black box, bearing it open for the lady to behold a small, shiny gold ring.

Francis Bonnefoy grabs the camera. "What a beautiful surprise! A proposal, a declaration of love, right here! And,  _mes amis_ , I swear it is not staged for you! Oh!" He rushes over to the couple, right as the lady nods and laughs brightly, and the man jumps up to kiss her. With this, Francis Bonnefoy is having a hayday. "Oh,  _oh!_ " He claps his hands gloriously and does a funny little happy dance in front of them. A few other tourists clap and smile along, then quickly move away.

The couple shares a smile, but then the woman notices Francis Bonnefoy, and her eyes narrow. She begins shouting at him in Arabic. The man frowns, drawing them away from the cameras and helicopters protectively.

Francis Bonnefoy ignores their reactions and begins walking quickly in the opposite direction, grabbing the camera, which shakes. "Those two are happy, you see? The smiles. They have found love, and I now have secondary  _l'amour_  for appreciating their  _l'amour_. Yes, secondary  _l'amour_ is a thing. But it is a different type of love. Oh, that is good! Let us explore the different types of lo—" Not watching where he's going, Francis Bonnefoy accidentally bumps into a tall man standing nearby and shrieks (due to either the sudden collision or the identity of the man is unclear).

The man turns around and shrieks back. "Francis Bonnefoy?"

Another man, next to the tall shrieking man, falls prey to the shrieking chain-reaction and echoes also, "Francis Bonnefoy?"

Francis Bonnefoy hands the camera off and dusts off his untainted, unrumpled  _ensemble_. Then, and only then does he face the newcomers. And then he grins. Opens his arms wide as if in preparation for hugs and kisses. You smile to yourself at the thought. "Ludwig and Feliciano! So good to see you here in my little town!"

Ludwig goes into immediate panic mode, putting a hand on Feliciano's back in attempt to steer him away and, "Back to the elevator now,  _quick_ , before he—oh,  _Gott_ , there are the helicopters."

Feliciano doesn't seem to notice the maneuver. "Francis Bonnefoy!" he repeats, submitting to the hugs and kisses. Then he pulls away and points excitedly at the other couple on the other side of the balcony. "Did you see, did you see what happened! Oh! Are you here for the wedding? Did you see, did you see? They are getting married! There will be a wedding!"

Francis Bonnefoy is radiant. "Yes, yes, all very exciting,  _mon chou_! And what are you and  _your chou"_ —here he flicks a hand in Ludwig's direction, seizing the opportunity—"doing here, in such a...prominent...place?"

Ludwig sighs and continues glancing around nervously, blushing, terrified to say anything on camera lest it be held against him. Feliciano, however, looks perplexed. "My  _what_? My—my  _show,_ did you say? No, I am  _showing_ him—no, we are touring Paris together! We like sightseeing! Don't we?" (Ludwig is trying to hide his face in his jacket. Maybe no one saw him yet.) Feliciano is thoroughly confused, although he doesn't realize it. "Francis Bonnefoy, is this  _your_ show?"

Francis Bonnefoy takes a step back, finally; Ludwig gives an exhale. "My  _show_? Ah, no, no, of course not! I promise you I am just out for a bit of sightseeing myself!" He winks and nudges the couple like a million times. "We all like  _sightseeing_ , don't we, and,  _touring_...touring the City of  _Love_ … _l'amour_..." He waggles his perfect eyebrows.

Ludwig has had enough. He takes Feliciano's hand and pulls him behind him, still watching their backs as if they stood at a crime scene and not a public place, one of the most visited in the world. "Look, we didn't consent to this documentation, and, and, and I don't care if you  _are_ damn Francis Bonnefoy…"

Francis Bonnefoy is ignoring him and now faces the camera, narrating as Feliciano and Ludwig make their escape. "Ah, we find so much love in Paris today, yes. Italian lovers and French lovers are both beautiful and the most desired romantics of the world, I would say—and frankly I am still surprised the Germans ever manage to get out with their deep, angst-ridden affections—but hey. They have to supply children for that enviable economy somehow." His smile turns lopsided. "No! I am not here to judge anyone, no! I am here for…" He searches for the words, his hair blowing in the wind of the descending helicopters. "I am here for...actually, why am I still here?"

* * *

Francis Bonnefoy, now relaxing pleasantly on the park lawn in front of the  _Casino de Monte-Carlo_ , wearing a silver tuxedo, dipping a white-gloved hand into the fountain. Mountains, city, a purple sky, expensive cars, and beautiful people surround him. "Ah, yes,  _l'amour_ in southern France. Look at all the beauty! Love and beauty, just like love and happiness, can be synonymous."

"Did you say 'southern France?'" a melodic woman's French voice carries from across the garden. She stands against the fence, wearing a floor-length sparkling dress, sparkling glasses, and holding a sparkling champagne flute. "Do you not mean  _Monaco_?"

"Ah." Francis Bonnefoy grins, extending a gracious hand of welcome to her. A Formula One racing car zooms by them on the street. "Did I say 'south France?'  _Ma cocotte_  Monique, thank you for the correction! This is why I love you!" His eyes hit the camera again, and you feel assaulted that this man could ever make a mistake in his life at all. "Monique and I are dear friends—like siblings with our love. Sometimes more." A pause. "Er,  _non_ , I did not mean that. I—" His pink-dusted facial features are overcome even more by  _rougir_ , but he recovers quickly. "Monique, how about you tell us instead about the different ways  _you_  feel love?"

The woman's, Monique's, face forms a small simper. She appears to relax. Lights flicker on across the square, illuminating the magnificent buildings and architecture. "Oh, Francis Bonnefoy, I do love you, and still, from you I have much to learn! But I—I cannot tell the whole world of my love, oh no!" She gazes at the camera, and it is as if she is lost in a dream.

Francis Bonnefoy snags onto the idea. " _Ma soeur_ is correct. Sometimes, there are forms of love we feel we must hide. Too special. But tell me, are you happy with your love? Are you happy with the way you love?"

Monique takes a graceful sip of her champagne. "Am I happy? With my love? I, I suppose I am. But there are other things that make one happy. Are you happy, Francis Bonnefoy? With your love and your life?"

It's an intense moment. Francis Bonnefoy reflects about the street scene, but his eyes go beyond the fountain and straight through the buildings, past the yachts and out over the sea. You watch him, and you feel heart-clenching anxiety. And then he looks back, and from his impeccable lips fly the words, "Life is a flower of which love is the honey. A quote from my precious Victor Hugo.* I think...I think it fits."

Monique's "Oh," is tiny, but she holds her smile. "Okay, then. Thank you for visiting me."

Francis Bonnefoy quickly springs up to give her parting kisses. "I am flattered! It is always a pleasure!" They both smile, and they are both gorgeous as the sun sets over the valley.

* * *

Francis Bonnefoy, on a fancy train, traveling anywhere. Outside, it is raining, but inside with Francis Bonnefoy, it is bright. He wears now a a khaki suit, polished black shoes, and a red velvet cape to match the red velvet seats. " _Mes amis_ , I can say that  _l'amour_ is a thing I know. I have felt forms of the love many,  _many_  times. With women, with men, with places, with siblings, with strangers. Ah, and with you, of course." He winks at the camera, and your heart just about stops, but then his face takes back its previous expression. "I remember all their names, all their smiles, and what it felt like to touch all of them. I cannot imagine a life without love, and there is nothing I know better than love itself. Which is why I felt I was...qualified to talk...about love."

A man in elegant clothing passes down the aisle and takes the seat in front of Francis Bonnefoy. He begins conversing with his cell phone over the white noise of the train's shuttling and the weather outside. Francis Bonnefoy appears perplexed by this, and tries to speak above him to be heard. "L-Love is not always happiness, though. As Monique pointed out, happiness can come from other things. And sometimes, love is what hurts the mo-most."

The man in the next seat is now arguing—loud enough to be distracting. Francis Bonnefoy winces and continues to painfully ignore him. "I have had my heart broken so many times,  _mes canards,_  that I am surprised I still know what love is." And you are unable to fathom this, that there could be anyone in the world who wouldn't love this man. Worse—that there could be anyone in the world who would break this man's dear heart. You want to sob. Francis Bonnefoy takes a deep breath and starts again. "I can only extend a solemn, understanding hand to those who have felt my pain. Because of course, love isn't the only thing that can be sad, either. Hearts, like mine, are weak. Anything can break them. But I think…" Another muffled hiss from the next seat. "...I think that only love—kindness, happiness—can mend them."

Francis Bonnefoy sits back in contemplation. As he does, he finally allows himself to look over at the man in front of him. His eyes go wide, and the camera magnifies his expression. "Oh," he says, quietly, unscripted and to only himself. "Oh, he is  _glorious_." He bites his lip. "Oh, so elegant, he is magnificent." Begins playing with his hair. "Such stature...so composed."

The camera pans to the well-dressed male. His cheeks are pinked, and his glasses are slightly askew. He sits like a disturbed napkin under a stale slice of cake; he appears to be wearing some sort of napkin around his neck, as well. A musical theme begins to play whenever his beauty mark-dotted face is shown. He squawks into the phone, "…and the dessert was a complete waste of a very good euro-and-a-half, anyway." A pause. "What's that sound? Are you playing music?" He sniffs. The theme gets louder. "I know music when I hear it."

Francis Bonnefoy attracts the interest of the camera once more, for he is now leaning over his seat and into the man's. "Why,  _bonjour_ ,  _mon saucisson_.  _Excusez-moi,_  for I could not help but notice your exquisiteness. What brings us together on this lovely, romantic afternoon?"

The man glances out the window. Sniffs again. (The music theme has started up once more.) "It is raining—it isn't really lovely. Who are you?"

Francis Bonnefoy, sitting in the man's seat, touching the man's face. Sighing dreamily. Talking quickly. "'All around us are people, of all classes, of all nationalities, of all ages. For three days these people, these strangers to one another, are brought together. They sleep and eat under one roof, they cannot get away from each other. At the end of three days they part, they go their several ways, never, perhaps, to see each other again. And yet," says Francis Bonnefoy, "suppose an accident—'"*

"What's going on here?" a frowning woman appears in the aisle, her strong hands on her strong hips. Francis Bonnefoy lurches back. "Have you gotten lost, again, Roderich?"

Francis Bonnefoy notes, "Ah, Roderich…"

Roderich stiffens. "I must have! Dear Elizabeta, you know I've no idea how to walk on this gargantuan shaking vehicle. This absolutely uncouth disgracious strange barbaric rude completely vulgar ill-mannered tacky crass French lout here, he just appeared, and began speaking to me in such an unrefined temper!"

Elizabeta huffs. "Is that so?" From behind her back she lifts a large, metal frying man. A tremor passes through Francis Bonnefoy's alluring eyes. " _Monsieur,_  whoever you are, I beseech you get away from my husband!" She raises the pan in preparation. Francis Bonnefoy gasps. The camera falls, aimed at the floor, voices are heard, some yelling, and then everything goes black.

* * *

Francis Bonnefoy, in nothing but shades and a bright red speedo, his artificially tanned body flashing as he plays volleyball on a sunny beach with a young, (officially) tanned girl in a blue bathing suit. You look away for a second, embarrassed at his exposure, but are forced to watch when the ball sails his way. It's a swing and a miss. Francis Bonnefoy falls elegantly on his elegant butt in the sand. You look away again.

Francis Bonnefoy, now resting alone on a towel beneath a palm tree. The little girl's volleyball game continues a distance off, without him. "Sometimes,  _mes amis_ , it is better to be alone than to waste your time with love. Sometimes,"—he groans, drawing a bag of ice out from under his hips and putting it on his head instead—"it is better to take some time off. In fact, some prefer taking time off  _forever_." He gazes across the blue ocean waves. "Some don't love others in the romantic or sexual way, and who can blame them? There might not always be 'someone you will find eventually,' and sometimes it is difficult to know when you are feeling the right thing, and if you should dismiss it or not. Sometimes,"—he frowns here—"prince charming turns out to be an ass. Or his defences are just too good. You can't push love."

"What did you say?" The girl in the blue with the pigtails approaches Francis, the volleyball balanced against her hip.

"Ah, nothing,  _ma crevette,_ Michelle!" Francis Bonnefoy sits up, having not noticed her approach. "I am just...in the  _réflexion_." He tosses the bag of ice aside.

Michelle still doesn't appear to be bothered. Her expression is tranquil. "Well, that's cool, I guess. Hey, wanna go catch some fish to eat?" She then notices the cameras. "Oh, well, after you're done with this…"

Francis Bonnefoy takes a second to understand her way of speaking. "Ah, yes, in  _un moment_. But, say, you do love your fish."

Michelle gives a big, pearly white grin. "So you'll come? And...and will you cook them for me? Please? I love your food!"

Francis Bonnefoy whips off his sunglasses, and his wide sky-blue, ocean-blue sapphire  _pools_ —his  _orbs_ —are lit up. "What a brilliant idea! See!" He turns excitedly to the camera. Your heart speeds up. "Michelle loves fish, and food, and speaking her strange language* to me! This type, these types of love makes one happy, too! I feel it!" He lays back down. "I feel it when I wake up to sunshine and roses, and I feel it when the bread is fresh and warm, and the  _parfum_  is nice, and I feel it when the fabric is soft and the wine is wet." He blows an elated kiss to the sky above. "Love must be there. Love is always there!"

Michelle sits down next to him, her red-ribboned pigtails accidentally blocking the camera. "So...you'll fish with me? Or maybe go exploring or something? I  _did_ win the game…"

* * *

Francis Bonnefoy, bundled in a designer coat, skin-tight ski pants and a scarf, wearing glasses and wobbling on ice skates that look more like figure skates. He holds a hot chocolate in one hand, and a hockey stick in the other, and it appears he only knows how to use one of the two objects. You feel warm yourself just looking at him as he takes a steamy sip from the thermos.

"How about another game? Just one more!" someone crashes into the ice rink wall next to Francis Bonnefoy, so suddenly that he spills a little of the cocoa. It hisses against the ice, but Francis Bonnefoy is smiling.

"Matthieu, please,  _mon nounours._ You know you have already won it," he coos. You then notice how there is ice in his delicately disheveled hair and marks on his knees.

Matthew takes off his helmet and shakes out his own hair. It's similar to Francis Bonnefoy's, but freer of ice than the rest of his gear. He casts aside his own hockey stick, trading it for his own pair of glasses. "Okay, alright, I won't make you."

"Besides, I wouldn't want to ruin this body of mine. All you young  _athlétiques_ people and your sports." Francis Bonnefoy gestures with his stick (I mean his hockey stick, god); you agree—his body is superb, and you've seen most of it by this point. "I can't imagine the...the relations you are able to have. Now that's a detail of  _l'amour_ I have skipped over up until now. Of course, good sex can be essential to good love. And everyone desires at least good love, do they not?" He turns to Matthew as if for confirmation.

Matthew suddenly looks very comfortable in his maple-leaf-decorated, full-body-concealing gear. "Uh…for sure." He glances nervously at the camera, as if noticing it for the first time. An uneasy "Eh," slips out.

Francis Bonnefoy is on a roll. " _Mes amis_ , only with  _l'amour,_ only with  _l'amour._  Because, to touch someone is to love them, and though there is sometimes touch without love, it might feel like it is good, but it will never last. But the  _lasting_ love,  _oh._ " He blushes himself, and suddenly you feel warm for a different reason. "Oh, oh, how it can save a night. I wish for those times now...those dreams,"—he spills his hot chocolate and his hockey stick to circle his arms around himself in a seductive hold—"those  _beautiful_ dreams. As Balzac* said, 'Love is the poetry of the senses.'"

He is silent for a long moment, red-faced with shut eyes, obviously reliving his special moments to himself. The camera sways. Matthew is left unnoticed. He turns back and forth from Francis Bonnefoy to the camera, confused. He adjusts his glasses, tightens his hold on his hockey stick. "Um," he finally begins, quietly, "sorry, guys." Turns to Francis Bonnefoy. Points at the melting ice beneath them. "So did you want another cocoa?"

* * *

Francis Bonnefoy, bundled again in a designer coat (except this is a different designer coat this time), standing in the middle of a crowded Times Square. It's a neon-lit New Year's Eve, and the big ball is minutes from dropping. Like before, both his hands are occupied; he's holding a microphone in one to be heard over the excited sounds of the city, and a fat bottle of wine in the other, to help him further ignore his surroundings.

"And now,  _mes amis,_ we wait for love." His expression is glazed. "Another year is another chance to love. Think of everyone who will realize their love this year." He is jostled by the crowd, but he retains his ground and his words. "Babies will be born. Couples will marry. People will come out, will confess. Friendships will be made. Places will be explored. Passions will be discovered. Food will be eaten. Stories will be read. Words will be said. And now." He looks around himself, as if taking in the scene for the very first time. A placid smile rests upon his face. "Now, lips will be kissed."

"Francis Bonnefoy?" a voice hurtles through the crowd, and a man soon follows. "Hey, man, what are you doing here?" At first glance, he appears to look just like Matthew, but the blond hair under his stocking cap is choppier, and his scarf is a decorated American flag.

Francis Bonnefoy appears surprised. "Alfred,  _mon doudou_! I should think I would meet you here!"

"What'd you say? Your  _doo doo_? Is that your attempt at calling me 'dude,' dude? Your New Year's has been on for like a few hours already, why the hell are you here?" He laughs. Then he eyes the cameras. "Hey! Hey! What's this? Am I on TV?" He flashes a smile, trying to get closer, waving. "Hi, world!"

Francis Bonnefoy laughs as well. His laugh is so pleasant, so charming, like music to your ears. "You talk so fast. How close is it?"

Alfred stretches to catch a glimpse of the clock, without quite taking his gaze away from the cameras. "Oh, dang! Less than a minute! Which means I gotta skedaddle real quick." He pats Francis Bonnefoy on the shoulder. "See ya in the New Year!"

Francis Bonnefoy watches him disappear back into the crowd. Numbers are flashing; the people that surround Francis Bonnefoy are counting down, wildly shouting away the last seconds of the last year. Confetti litters the air. The camera shakes a bit in the fervor. Francis Bonnefoy closes his eyes.

" _Happy New Year!_ " The screams and calls come freely.

The fireworks begin, and Francis Bonnefoy opens them. You fall in love a thousand times with that expression. He gasps joyfully as couples around him begin to kiss each other, and extends his hands to the sky, popping open the bottle of wine while confetti stains his clothes. He is practically jumping up and down as he takes a swig.

" _Eyyy,_  2k18!"* Alfred suddenly reappears, holding two red Solo cups. He offers to pour for Francis Bonnefoy, but Francis Bonnefoy declines.

"You are too young for wine!" Francis Bonnefoy sings, continuing to drink straight from the bottle while Alfred watches. "Why did you run off?"

Alfred shrugs, but it's hard to tell for how much he's being nudged. "I'll admit I was a little scared you would try to kiss me."

Francis Bonnefoy stops. His smile is brighter than anything in New York City. "Oh, you silly boy!" He wraps Alfred in a hug, causing him to drop the cups. Francis Bonnefoy stomps on the plastic, crushing them to the ground.

* * *

Francis Bonnefoy, alone at home. It's silent. He wears a silk robe and stands over a running bath. On the side of the rub rests a full glass of wine, the bottle from earlier, and a few candles. The camera awkwardly focuses on the gilded bathroom toilet as Francis drops his robe and climbs in.

"Ah," he sighs, turning off the water. He's relaxed, groaning with pleasure at the temperature and the bubbles. Foam gets into his hair. It's adorable. "Sometimes,  _mes amis_ , love can be a little...overwhelming.  _L'amour_ is like, like a thick cream—difficult to spread everywhere, but delicious when even and complete. And I admit that sometimes I forget to show my love to myself, as well." He takes a careful sip of wine. "One always needs to show love to oneself."

It's silent again as he ponders. You hold your breath in anticipation. When he speaks again, it's quieter, to himself, not the camera. "I have been through so much, and this year, I will go through so much more." He shifts under the water. "I need to remember love myself this year."

You're scared to blink. His balletic, refined expression has drifted off somewhere, and is replaced with—with—a small frown. "I know what they say about me, about what I do. The opposite of love is hate. And I can never—" He breathes. "I can never allow myself to hate. No one should."

You freeze. His face—is that…

A single tear.

"Hate destroys. Hate takes love, and twists it, and pushes it down, and kills it."

Something inside you cracks.

Francis Bonnefoy takes another sip of wine. There are two tears, now. Three. It's unfathomable, but he's crying. Francis Bonnefoy is crying. He sets down his glass and takes the camera instead, waving out whoever was behind it at first. You are uncomfortable with this new switch of perspective. From his view, close up, you're able to see his imperfections. His attractive stubble is uneven. His lips are stained with wine—you wonder how much he's had. His tearful eyes are dull, and the water makes his hair matted. He's no longer a beautiful object, an admirable symbol, something to drool over atop a pedestal. He's a human. Plain and simple.

He sobs, looking away.

You look away, too.

The camera fogs up and goes black.

* * *

Francis Bonnefoy, cold, covered in dripping wet blankets and towels, and shouting. You cannot understand what he's saying at first. He appears to have spilled wine on himself (he's wearing a simple white pajama gown under the blankets and towels), and someone's arms are there with a cloth, trying to clean it up. You tense at who might be with him, helping him, when he's in such a state as this. They're sitting on a sofa in someone's living room, probably Francis Bonnefoy's.

"...why don't you do it yourself, then? I know it's cold!" the person shouts back. "Cold water will get it out quicker!"

"Arthur, you  _crotte_ , I don't care anymore," Francis Bonnefoy slurs from a shiver. "I'll just get a new one." He makes no move to do so, however.

Arthur throws down the rag, throws in the towel. His own clothes, now, have stains on them; he's wearing a fancy suit dusted with New Year's glitter. "Well, then why'd you call me over here for in a mad panic in the middle of the night? I thought it was an emergency! You said you  _needed_  me!"

Francis Bonnefoy groans, falling against the couch cushions. "It  _was_. I  _did._ "

Arthur folds his arms, looking unsure of what to do. The camera's view is twisted and not properly straight, as if it were resting on a nearby coffee table, and Arthur's face comes into view when he leans back. There are bags under his eyes. "You were drunk, weren't you."

" _Non_." Curtains are visible in the room, but there shines no sun from behind them.

"Yes, you were." Arthur's confident. You're terrified. "I'll bet it's your revenge for that time when I—"

" _Shhh, s'il vous plaît_ , you are giving me a headache." Francis Bonnefoy looks miserable. He picks up someone's coat from the floor and tries to wrap it around himself.

Arthur stands, fixing the coat for him. "Fine, then. But next time you call me in the middle of the night, be sure to at least be out of the bath by the time I arrive." A laugh, filling just short of its mood-lightening purpose. His voice is somber again. "I, I came anyway. We've all made mistakes, Francis Bonnefoy. We all get confused. We all need someone to help us through it. It's okay."

Francis Bonnefoy grunts indignantly, in denial. He closes his eyes, looking very much like he'd rather go back to sleep than listen to any more wisdom coming from someone who isn't himself.

Arthur shoves his hands in his pockets. "You can keep my coat—I thought it might look better on a person with your type of...uh... _personality_ , anyway." A pause. You wonder if that was supposed to be an insult. "What's this?" Suddenly, Arthur's face and his huge eyebrows are taking up the entire camera screen. He glares at it, trying to figure it out. "Oh! It's recording; did you know? Hmm…"

Blackness comes again.

* * *

Francis Bonnefoy, wearing new, silk pajamas decorated with hearts, still in his living room, though the sun has been up for hours. Oh, and he's kissing a man. (The man wears similar sleepwear under his jacket and earmuffs, though his pajamas have tomatoes on them.)

"Gross, you pervs!" someone else shouts from the door. Francis Bonnefoy and the man pull away.

"It is only the greeting Antonio and I share!" Francis Bonnefoy complains. "You're the pervert, Gilbert."

"We're all perverts!" Antonio declares happily, marching into Francis Bonnefoy's humble dwelling, Gilbert right behind him. (Gilbert's pajamas have birds on them. What a peculiar threesome, you think, still blushing.)

They dump off their winter wear by the door. Francis Bonnefoy turns the television on as Antonio raids the kitchen and Gilbert dutifully clears away the mess from last night. " _Mein Gott_ , what even  _happened_?" he wonders, holding up a few wet towels with disgust.

Francis Bonnefoy flicks through the channels. You wait for him to fall under the melancholic spell again, but he remains passive, content, and even a little excited. It's New Year's Day, after all. "It is a story for another time,  _mes amis_." When he says  _mes amis_  here, you know he's for once not addressing the camera and everyone behind it, including you. "For now, we relax, and we celebrate."

Antonio plops down on the couch, having found a tin of cookies and another bottle of wine. "Haven't had enough grapes yet! With the way things are going, twelve might not be enough for good luck this year, but let's stay optimistic!"* He bites his lip as he struggles with opening the bottle.

Gilbert blows a party horn, startling everyone. "Damn, a new year. I feel old.*" He too collapses on the couch, practically atop Antonio, and blows the horn a few more times before laying to rest and wrapping himself in the one clean, dry blanket the household has left. "Still young enough to kick your asses, though. What's on?"

Francis Bonnefoy is no longer looking at the TV. His eyes have drifted back to the camera, to you. "Another type of love is friendship love. Love for the people who will always take care of you and be there to celebrate with you, and help you celebrate. Because sometimes you need to know that others love you before you can love yourself, and sometimes loving others yourself can help you love yourself." He tilts his head, shapely blond curls gracing his shoulder. "I have overanalyzed, haven't I? Taken  _l'amour_ too far?"

"Francis Bonnefoy, get your baguette over here!" His friends are calling him, but you cannot look away, and neither can he. He smiles. You sob. "What are you doing with that camera? Our trashy show is on, c'mere! Are you  _talking_ to that camera?"

Francis Bonnefoy reaches out and touches the screen softly. You put your hand out and touch him back. "I'll let you take whatever you can out of this, then,  _mon amour._ " He's—he's addressing  _you_ , and you are in utter disbelief. "Your love can be whatever you make of it. I should have known; love is too far above words. After this, I'm not even sure love exists, but I know I feel something in my poor heart, and so I think it's safe to say I can call it whatever I want.  _Mes amis_ , I'm calling it love."

You want to laugh at him. You know this, you've known all of this. You think to yourself: Francis Bonnefoy is what love is.

Francis Bonnefoy, himself, is love.

Francis Bonnefoy, himself, is  _l'amour_.

* * *

Francis Bonnefoy. He's arms-deep in dough, molding it and shaping it, scattering flour across a metallic countertop. He wears a chef's uniform and a smile. It's loud, with pots and pans banging in the background, and the sounds of shouts in different languages.

"Order up!" barks someone, whizzing by, their apron flowing. Francis Bonnefoy reacts, spinning around to take the silver tray. The man replaces Francis Bonnefoy on the dough.

" _Merci_ , Sadik," Francis Bonnefoy calls, blowing Sadik a kiss as he whisks the food away. The camera's panning to follow his navigation through the kitchen, around big basin sinks, shining stoves, and hanging utensils. "What table, Yao?" he calls to a short man in an identical chef hat, who has just wheeled a tray into the room.

"Twelve!" Yao shouts, nodding as Francis Bonnefoy passes him. Everything is hustle and bustle, like a scene from the movie  _Ratatouille_ *, and smells float through the air, following Francis Bonnefoy out of the kitchen and into the crowded dining area.

He heaps the platter down at table twelve, in front of a tall, bescarfed man, whose eyes light up as the steam rises from the scrumptious dish. Francis Bonnefoy gestures grandly and blows a kiss with his free hand. " _Bon appetit_ , Ivan!"

The restaurant turns as Francis Bonnefoy takes a seat at an empty table. He's staring directly at the camera with the broadest, happiest smile yet. He's more beautiful than anything in the restaurant. " _L'amour_ ," he begins, "is therefore what we make of it. No matter if it is invisible, or angry, or soft, or strong and everlasting. No matter if it comes from the head or the eyes or the heart, it keeps up together, and it keeps the world turning. So, this New Year, all I can say is remember to realize  _l'amour_ is there. And, when you can, remember it is always good to show love yourself."

The scene begins to zoom out, and it becomes visible that the whole dining area is just a few walls set up in a large film warehouse. The extras begin to leave the scene, and a few techies in dark clothes scamper about, taking props down. The makeup lady from earlier darts in, blots something on Francis Bonnefoy's face, and darts out. Bright overhead lights begin to shut off.

Francis Bonnefoy stands, moving closer to the camera, chasing the reel. "I think I have found my love—found all of it." He winks. "And I hope you will, too."

And then, finally then, comes the end.

* * *

*" _George Sand"_ \- a saucy French writer and lover to many ) (;

*" _major search engines, including Google"_  - Google is a major search engine

* " _one does not need to see in color or to have special words written on their wrist"_  - Francis Bonnefoy, the romantic he is, references some common soulmate AUs!

*" _Victor Hugo"_  - another famous French writer that you already know

*" _And yet," [says Francis Bonnefoy,] "suppose an accident—" -_ This whole section is quoted from Agatha Christie's  _Murder on the Orient Express_.

*" _her strange language"_  - Francis Bonnefoy refers to the French-based Seychellois Creole, duh

* _Balzac_  - yet another French guy

*" _You are too young for wine!"_ * - Because he is, the squirt.

*" _Haven't had enough grapes yet! With the way things are going, twelve might not be enough for good luck this year, but let's stay optimistic!" -_ Antonio refers to the Spanish custom of eating twelve grapes for each stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve, or be eternally damned (kidding).

*" _Damn, a new year. I feel old."_ \- Because he is, the grandpa.

* _Ratatouille_  - a classic French home film, almost as classic as Francis Bonnefoy's show itself

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year, everyone!


End file.
